by Paul Howarth
Ahead the sun was falling in the west, and in the low light the earth and sky and all before him was red. He kicked on and rode right into it. Into the redness. Into the sun.
36
From the darkness of the empty hillside a lone horse and rider emerged into the half-light cast by the homestead. Every lantern burning, as they had been long ago, when Tommy first rode up here, Mary slumped in his saddle and strapped to his shirtfront. Now he approached slowly, patiently, walking Beau directly to the staircase, then dismounting and leading him into the shadowy recess beneath the verandah, where he tied him to one of the struts. Whispered to him gently. His hand on his neck, his forehead alongside, as if in prayer to the horse. He backed out of the recess. Made his way up the stairs. Memories of having stood here telling Sullivan his family had been killed, Sullivan nodding sympathetically, then hoisting Mary into his arms. Her little limbs dangling. The bunches in her hair. And Sullivan all the while assuring them that they’d done the right thing bringing her, that Mary would be looked after, that Weeks would take care of her now.
Through the door and into the hall, the house quiet, not even the staff about. He trailed his hand along the green wallpaper, its texture like fur, and fingered the ornate picture frames fringed in golden weave. He paused at the drawing room and listened, then eased open the door. Empty. A low fire burning. The furniture and the ornaments and the strange spectacle of Mrs. Sullivan’s tree. It all seemed ridiculous. Like trappings of a lie. So many lies spoken right here in this room, every word almost—nothing anyone had told him had come close to being true.
In the atrium he cocked an ear and considered the silent house. Filthy and disheveled and dark from the sun, his wild eyes roaming, assessing the terrain. His attention settled on the parlor door. A low hum of voices, a sudden burst of laughter inside. Tommy flinched. Billy was in there, with Sullivan and at least one of Locke or Noone. Tommy’s jaw set. Breathing through his nose. His unfocused gaze slid off the parlor door and fixed itself somewhere on the wall, until the parlor erupted again and his eyes hardened and he set off walking for the stairs.
In Mary’s doorway he stood wondering whether she’d ever been in this room at all. No sign of her remained. The linen clean and white, the furniture neatly arranged, ready for some other guest. Sullivan had carried her up here and laid her down and knew all along it would be her deathbed. Now it was like she’d never lived. For all Mrs. Sullivan’s praying, for all the promises they had made, the only aim had been to keep her from talking until Tommy and Billy were gone.
He backed out of the doorway and went along the corridor, the light from the sconces rippling as he passed. Into his and Billy’s bedroom, their two beds neatly made, the curtains drawn, a square of hall light angled across the floor. At the foot of his bed was a pile of clean clothing, his clothing, the same he had been wearing when they first rode in, and then later, when they’d returned from . . . returned from . . . Timidly he lifted the corner of the shirt. As you would a shroud. His trousers were under there. His old greenhide belt. His father had worn that shirt once, those same trousers, had even cut the belt with his knife. Tommy looked himself over, at Sullivan’s gaudy rags. He stepped into the room, closed the door, began to strip. A difficulty unbuttoning the shirt, a tremor in his hands. Stiffly he dressed, pulling on his moleskins, slipping his bare feet into his boots, cinching his belt tight. Like stepping back into himself, for all that meant. He’d asked the maid to burn these clothes but was grateful that she’d not. They were about the only rightful possessions he owned in this world.
On his belly he groped the dusty floor beneath his bed, retrieved the rifle hidden there, the small stash of powder, caps and balls, then sat on the bed and cleaned the rifle meticulously with the discarded shirt. Working in darkness, only a strip of light beneath the door, feeling his way from firing pin to muzzle to trigger to stock. Absently he stared at Billy’s bed, imagined he could see his brother bundled beneath the blankets and hear the ticking in his breathing when he slept. Once that sound had made Tommy feel comforted, safe. Once Billy had crawled from that bed and climbed into this, the two of them back-to-back, as they’d always been. Once they had been brothers. Once.
Tommy tossed aside the shirt. Turned the rifle on its butt, tipped the powder into the barrel then loaded, rodded, and capped that one single shot. Briskly he stood, threw open the door, and marched away down the corridor, gripping the rifle by its forestock, shoulders rolling, a long determined stride and his eyes so fixed on the carpet runner before him that as he rounded the landing and came down the stairs he did not see Benjamin, the houseboy, crossing the atrium carrying a crystal carafe of wine; not until Tommy was on the final few steps and the two of them were only yards apart. Both paused. Benjamin cradling the carafe in his hands, his eyes on the rifle; Tommy suspended midstep. Slowly he advanced. Benjamin’s eyes darted between Tommy and the service corridor behind him, the kitchens, the back door, the yard.
“It’s okay,” Tommy whispered. “Please—put down the wine.”
Benjamin watched him warily. Tommy gestured for him to lower the carafe and finally he crouched and placed it on the floor, not once taking his eyes from Tommy’s face. Fully staring at him. Not even blinking, it seemed. Tommy faltered in his gaze, everything it said about him, everything he’d done. He swapped the rifle to his left hand and offered his right for Benjamin to shake. The houseboy glanced at the hand but otherwise didn’t move. Tommy’s hand fell. He stepped aside and motioned toward the back of the house. Still Benjamin only stared.
“Go,” Tommy begged, waving. “Go now, please.”
The old man shook his head and walked unhurried out of the atrium and along the service corridor, and Tommy heard the back door slap against the frame. He took a long breath. Unsettled by the exchange. The row of animal heads were watching him, their empty glassy eyes. He bent and took a swig of wine, then another, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The voices in the parlor grew louder and Tommy moved toward the door. Switched the rifle to his right hand, finger tensed on the trigger guard, and with his left took hold of the doorknob. The brass cool in his grip. Standing inches from the paneled door. Noone’s voice stalled him. So close and clear through the wood. Tommy began trembling, his body suddenly inert and very weak. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t do what needed to be done. Desperately he closed his eyes and searched for his parents, their faces, Mary’s too, but there was nothing, they were lost to him, like he’d forgotten his own blood. Only a memory of how he’d found them: Father slack-jawed and ashen, that fly on his eyeball; Mother half-scalped; Mary bleeding out on the bedroom floor. And so many others, so many killings, so many dead. The memories rouletting through him and Tommy’s hand losing its grip on the doorknob and his feet shuffling backward and his face wrought with the pain of knowing that all of it, all of it, had been in some way his fault.
“Boy! Where’s my fucking wine!”
Tommy’s eyes snapped open. He flung wide the parlor door. Striding across the room, sighting Sullivan down the rifle, his aim square on the squatter’s chest, until his thighs butted the desk edge and the muzzle pinned Sullivan to his seat. Quickly Sullivan settled himself. The surprise slid from his face. Flushed in the cheeks but he allowed a smile to creep and the fingers of his right hand to drum lightly on the desk.
“Now, then, son, don’t be foolish. Whatever this is, we’ll straighten it out.”
Tommy stepped back a pace. Glanced at Noone and Billy in the two wingback chairs. Billy openmouthed, while Noone had steepled his fingers and watched like a punter at a show. On the corner of the desk before him was a small stack of crumpled banknotes and a leather money pouch, and though Sullivan looked imploringly toward him, it was Billy who rose and asked, “What the hell you doing?”
“Sit down, Billy.”
“Not until you say what this is about.”
“He knows what this is about. Sit down.”
“I would do as your brother suggests,” Noone said. �
��Besides myself, he’s the only one in this room who is armed.”
“Hell, Edmund,” Sullivan said. “That’s no help.”
Billy lowered himself back into his chair. Noone arched an eyebrow playfully.
“You must have expected this, John. There is always a reckoning. It just seems that yours might have come earlier than either of us thought.”
Tommy jabbed the rifle toward Sullivan. “Say it, you bastard. Say what you did.”
“Quite the day you’ve had, Tommy. First the girl, now this.”
“Just . . . fucking say it.”
“Son, you’re making a bloody big mistake here. All I’ve ever done is look out for you and your brother, your sister too, while she was alive . . .”
“You killed them. I know you did. Killed them with Joseph’s gun.”
“What’s that now?” Billy asked.
“He came down the house, Billy. Him, not Joseph, and not the bloody Kurrong. He’d found Joseph with them bodies, killed him, took the old five-shot, had it on him when he came. MacIntyre as good as told me. All of it was him.”
Sullivan raised a finger theatrically. “Hold up now, hold up. I seem to remember two boys rode up here a little while back saying it was niggers that had done ’em all in. Said they’d seen it with their own eyes. Swore to it, even. Begging for my help.”
“Them testimonies were false and you know it.”
“Well, then, we’ve all been misled. A dozen myalls, you two told us. Right here in this room. The inspector was a witness. Signed in your own hand.”
The rifle muzzle was sagging. Some weight to keep raised. Tommy hefted it repeatedly and his wounded hand ached. A tremble setting in. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his mind was losing the order of things. All he’d seen so clearly was now mired in fog. He pulled back his shoulders, stiffened, steeled himself again.
“Who was it shot them, you or Locke?”
“Make up your bloody mind, son. Joseph, myalls, me . . . now it’s Locke?”
“Tommy, please,” Billy said quietly. “You ain’t making no sense.”
“Might be he’s got a fever,” Sullivan said. “Could be the rot’s set into that hand. Here, put down the rifle, I’ll send a boy for Weeks.”
“MacIntyre told me . . . told me . . .”
“Ah, that man’s a drunk and a fraud. Doesn’t know what bloody day it is, let alone about anything else.”
“You never sent for Shanklin. Two telegrams went to him, one after the next.”
“Telegrams? What you saying about telegrams? I wasn’t even here, Tommy—I was out there dispersing . . . with you.”
“Weeks sent the second one. On your word. Because Mary saw you. She knew.”
Sullivan laughed and threw up his hands. “The boy’s been drinking himself, I reckon.”
“Why’d you do it? The money? Over a few mangy fucking cows?”
“The why is irrelevant,” Noone said. “Either you want him dead or don’t you.”
“Shut your mouth, Edmund, for Christ’s bloody sake.”
“I’m not the enemy here, John. This was your doing from the start. You underestimated him. He’s the only one capable of seeing through the ruse.”
A silence settled over them. “It’s not true,” Billy said. “It can’t be—”
Sullivan flung back his chair and came lunging for the rifle, and on reflex Tommy fired. Eyes closed as he pulled the trigger, staggering with the kick of it, the report booming around the room, then his eyes were open again and the smoke was swirling and Sullivan was collapsing backward, clutching at his chest. Blood gathered between his fat fingers. Steadily it came. Seeping through the gaps and from underneath his palm, and Sullivan wide-eyed and coughing and gawping around the room. He lifted his hand, peeked under it, the frayed edges of his clothing encircling the ragged wound. He groaned, closed his hand, eyes shifting from Billy to Noone, but neither of them moved from their seats. Billy cupped his mouth and seemed frozen in the pose; Noone met the squatter’s stare with an indulgent smile, a strange kind of reverie broken only by Tommy fumbling in his pocket for another ball.
“Can’t let you do that, Tommy.”
“I got to make sure.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“It ain’t up to you.”
“I’m afraid this time it is.”
Noone opened his longcoat to reveal the ornate silver revolver Tommy had once held. He let the coat fall closed again. Tommy gave up on the ball and Sullivan began grunting horribly, blood and spittle foaming through his teeth, urging Noone to draw.
“You shot him,” Billy mumbled. “Christ, Tommy—what have you done?”
“Ma went to see MacIntyre about the patrols. This bastard killed them for it. That and the money Daddy owed. We told him it was Joseph and he used it for his own ends. He’s always wanted the Kurrong gone.”
Billy stood. He motioned to Sullivan, who was gargling each breath. “But . . . look at the fucking state of him. What are we going to do now?”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
Billy was shaking his head. Eyes damp and fearful. He looked at Tommy again. “You’re a bloody dead man. You’ve just noosed your own neck. Likely mine too.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Noone said, sighing. He clapped his hands on his knees and rose from the chair, scooped the money from the desk and deposited it inside the folds of his coat. “Entertaining as all this is, I’m afraid we must call it a night.”
“You ain’t no different,” Tommy said. “You’re just as bad as him.”
Noone drew his revolver, inspected the cylinder, turning it idly, cartridges in each chamber, a steady clicking sound. “The work we do out here cannot be arbitrary, Tommy. I must have rightful cause. The law demands its justification, and your testimonies were mine. You were my warrant, you and Billy—don’t you see?”
He snapped the cylinder into position and aimed the revolver at Tommy’s head. Sullivan grunted forcefully. The breath wheezing out of him. His shirt soaked in blood.
“It’s a shame, of course, since I’ve come to like you a great deal. A fine young man, great potential in you, particularly in a country where the young come slithering from their mothers as brainless and spineless as shits. There are not many who would have dared take their revenge in such a way. I applaud you for it. Bravo, Tommy. Bravo. But sadly your actions here have spoiled your own value, since the testimony of a murderer counts for naught in the eyes of the law. And I certainly cannot have you recanting. All our good work these past weeks would be undone.”
Noone blurred behind the revolver. Only the shape of him there. Tommy said, “If you kill me, your warrant’s gone.”
He ratcheted back the hammer. “Your testimony will suffice.”
Sullivan growling rabidly, the words strangled in his throat.
“You’ll have to account for shooting me. Say what I’ve done.”
“I’ll say the blacks got you. It’ll be grist to the mill.”
“They saw me today in Bewley, everyone, all over town.”
Noone hesitated, lowered the revolver, looked irritably around the room. As if replaying Tommy’s visit to determine whether this was true. There was movement in the doorway. All three of them turned: Mrs. Sullivan standing there in her nightgown, clutching herself with her thin bare arms.
“And what about me, Mr. Noone? Do you plan on killing me too?”
Noone shrugged and fiddled the revolver restlessly in his hands. “Truthfully, in such circumstances, I find that killing everyone usually works out for the best.”
She ghosted into the room and contemplated Sullivan across the desk. His eyes rolled toward her and stayed there. He was hardly moving now. Only his eyes and his chest when he breathed. His mouth hung open. A vacant palsied stare. His face looked jaundiced, and there were irregular pauses in the rhythm of each breath.
“Let the boys go,” she said quietly. “What harm can they do?”
Noone gest
ured toward her husband. “There’s the harm.”
“It sounds as though they were perfectly justified. Are you paid?”
“I am.”
“Then I’d suggest you leave too.”
She didn’t turn around. Watching Sullivan expire. Noone rolled his tongue in his mouth and glowered at them each in turn. A great frustration in him. As if weighing whether to simply shoot them all. A round in each head and it would be done with; he could walk straight out the front door. Nobody would accuse him. Nobody would dare.
“Please, Mr. Noone. Allow me this courtesy.”
“Very well. I’ll wait in the hall.”
He left without acknowledging either of the boys, ducking through the doorway and striding into the atrium, where his footsteps abruptly stopped. Mrs. Sullivan glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes found Tommy’s and she pulled her lips tight. “I’m so sorry. Truly, I knew nothing about any of it. I honestly thought we were trying to help.”
“You want me to fetch the doctor?” Billy asked her.
“No, no, there’s no need. Go on to bed, the pair of you. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
She turned to face Sullivan again, then perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Hands folded in her lap, back straight. “There now, John. Hush. It’ll all be over soon.”
The brothers left the room. Tommy eased the door closed on the latch. Noone was in the center of the atrium drinking wine from the carafe, and when he saw them he beckoned for them to come. They wouldn’t. Neither moved. Noone holstered his revolver and offered the carafe, swept his other hand through the air in something like a bow. Tommy and Billy exchanged a look. They had no choice, in truth. Timidly they walked toward him and Noone kept the carafe out-held. Billy was first to take it. He swallowed a tentative sip. Then Tommy, then Billy again, who handed it back to Noone. And for a while they simply stood there, passing the wine around, like three old comrades drinking in that vast white vaulted hall.